


i should've called you twice

by rxpunzels



Series: The Derry Press [1]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bonus Content, Car Sex, Emotional Sex, Exes, Hand Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, past relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25410004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxpunzels/pseuds/rxpunzels
Summary: “I was an idiot back then,” Richie says. He’s gripping his steering wheel tightly even though he doesn’t have any plans to drive anywhere. Or maybe he’s just waiting for Eddie to say the wrong thing so he can hit the gas and back up into Eddie’s truck, parked a few feet behind them in the empty bowling alley car park.“Why do you want me to be mad at you?” Eddie asks.Richie just shakes his head. “Because right now I don’t know where the fuck we stand, man. It’s probably easier if I knew what you felt.”
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: The Derry Press [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1840360
Comments: 8
Kudos: 152





	i should've called you twice

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place in the universe for my SMAU 'The Derry Press', in between updates 36 and 37. You could probably read this as a standalone if you go into this with the knowledge that Richie and Eddie are exes, but it will make more sense if you read the AU, which you can do on Twitter over at @thederrypress!

Eddie stays silent when Richie finishes talking. There’s a lot to process, but that’s not why he’s fallen so quiet. He’s not sure he can trust himself to speak without murderous intent right now.

  
  


“Eddie?”

  
  


Richie’s voice sounds so small. The back of Eddie’s skull still is pressed firmly against the seat of the car. He rolls his head to the side so he can look at Richie.

  
  


They’re parked underneath a streetlight and the chemical yellow glow cuts shadows onto Richie’s face. They illuminate the raindrops on the windshield, making it look like Richie’s face is covered in tiny moles, even though Eddie knows Richie doesn’t have so much as a freckle there. It’s been seven years and the other man’s face is mapped out so clearly in his mind, Eddie is still pretty confident that he could navigate it in his sleep.

  
  


He stares at Richie who stares back at him, eyes wide and magnified behind his glasses. Eddie absently wonders whether or not his prescription has stabilised since Eddie left New York. His squared-off Carl Fredricksen frames have been replaced with a tortoiseshell pattern, the edges a little more rounded. He suits them, even though Eddie is inclined to believe that Richie suits just about anything. That much hasn’t changed.

  
  


“If you’re gonna freeze me out again, can we spare the lecture you’re gonna give me first?” Richie’s voice is strained, like he’s struggling to maintain the bored tone he’s adopted.

  
  


Eddie’s eyebrows dip inward when he realises Richie thinks that Eddie is angry at  _ him _ .

  
  


“I’m gonna kill him,” he says softly.

  
  


Richie’s reaction is immediate. “What?”

  
  


“Steve. I’m gonna kill him,” Eddie says, just in case that’s the clarification Richie needs.

  
  


There’s another stretched cut of silence before a harsh scoff tears itself out of Richie’s throat. “Come on, man. It’s not like I didn’t bring this on myself. I’m surprised you’re not tearing up my fucking upholstery like a locked-in dog.”

  
  


“Why would I do that?”

  
  


“So you can chew me out for developing a fucking drug habit.”

  
  


Eddie rears his head back. He narrows his eyes at Richie who’s staring steadfastly out the window. The rain is coming down harder now, each droplet splattering noisily against the windshield.

  
  


“I’m not going to chew you out, Rich. That’s not - I’m angry  _ for  _ you. Not at you.” 

  
  


He can tell from the look on Richie’s face that hadn’t been what he was expecting. But Richie is doing a pretty good job of keeping his feelings to himself. He’s closed up, like a store rattling its shutter down at the end of a long day. Back when they were a couple, Eddie could read Richie like an open book. Now he’s struggling to even reach him on the shelf.

  
  


Or maybe he just lost the right to be privy to Richie’s emotions when he left. He’s not Richie’s boyfriend anymore, but he figures he’s still allowed to be concerned.

  
  


“I was an idiot back then,” Richie says. He’s gripping his steering wheel tightly even though he doesn’t have any plans to drive anywhere. Or maybe he’s just waiting for Eddie to say the wrong thing so he can hit the gas and back up into Eddie’s truck, parked a few feet behind them in the empty bowling alley car park.

  
  


“Why do you want me to be mad at you?” Eddie asks.

  
  


Richie just shakes his head. “Because right now I don’t know where the fuck we stand, man. It’s probably easier if I knew what you felt.”

  
  


The words send a tremor through Eddie’s entire body. He’s not even sure what he feels for Richie right now, but it isn’t anger. And it definitely isn’t pity. He’s filled with righteous fury on Richie’s behalf because his shitty ex-manager has plans to blackmail him for reasons Richie hasn’t yet disclosed to him, but that’s all Eddie needs to know in order to see red. He knows this means he still cares about Richie, and he’s even more certain that he never stopped, but acknowledging how deep he’s willing to let that realisation run seems like a dangerous thing to consider right now.

  
  


When has Eddie not seen his feelings as dangerous though? He’s a fucking livewire. Richie had to learn that the hard way without even really knowing he had.

  
  


“I don’t know where we stand either,” Eddie says quietly. “But I want to help you. That’s why I told you about Steve sending me the e-mail.”

  
  


“You don’t have to worry about me. I’m fucking clean,” Richie snaps defensively. He whips his head around to look at Eddie and the sneers on his face slowly melts away when he seems to realise Eddie hadn’t meant it like that.

  
  


“I’m not questioning that,” says Eddie anyway. “Just… whatever’s happened between us, it doesn’t mean I’m gonna stop being on your side or whatever.”

  
  


“Or whatever,” Richie mimics, staring back out the front of the car. But after a minute he shoots a sidelong smile at Eddie.

  
  


It’s not a truce as such, but relief washes over Eddie and he gives Richie a smile of his own, cheeks dimpling.

  
  


Then Richie’s smile wavers.

  
  


“I’m not sure how much more I can fucking take,” Richie whispers. “I thought Steve was out of my life and I could focus on my dad even though coming back here fucking  _ sucked _ and then he just pops up again, ready to… to…”

  
  


Eddie watches in horror as Richie’s face crumples. His grip tightens on the steering wheel until he’s white-knuckling the leather, his head falling forward so his face disappears into the sleeve of his jacket. 

  
  


“Rich…”

  
  


“I’m good,” Richie chokes out.

  
  


With as much hesitation as Eddie thinks he’s allowed right now, he reaches forward and covers one of Richie’s hands with his own. His skin feels familiar under Eddie’s touch and that stupid, completely unexpected and inexplicable feeling of recognition chases itself up Eddie’s arm until he feels like his whole body is on fire. His fingers slot into the spaces between Richie’s and he can feel Richie’s large, round knuckles digging into his palm.

  
  


He stares at their hands.

  
  


“How shitty is the soap at your place?” Richie’s voice cuts through his reverie and he flinches a little. He turns to look at Richie only to realise that Richie is also staring intently at their hands.

  
  


“What?” he asks dumbly.

  
  


Richie drags his gaze up to meet Eddie’s, holding it for a second before nodding pointedly back down again. Eddie looks back towards the steering wheel and realises Richie’s talking about the ink stains covering his wrist and fingers.

  
  


“I had a story idea I wanted to get down,” he says, lifting his free hand to wave it a little, showing off its similar state.

  
  


“You always did write like you were running out of time, Scoop,” Richie jokes. They both startle a little at the familiar nickname. Just in case Richie tries to take it back, Eddie elects to screw his face up instead and crack one eye open to look at Richie.

  
  


“Please tell me that wasn’t a Hamilton reference.”

  
  


“You think I can afford Hamilton tickets?” Richie asks.

  
  


Eddie blinks.

  
  


“Because I can,” Richie continues, his face splitting into a grin. “I’ve seen it three times.”

  
  


“Ugh.” Eddie tosses his head to the side in an exaggerated show of disgust. He hears Richie laughing though, and by the time he’s looked back at him, they’re already both smiling.

  
  


A low chuckle rises at the back of Eddie’s throat and he rests his temple back against the headrest so he can keep looking at Richie. The rain is a thick sheet of water pouring against the windshield now. He can hear it puttering furiously against the roof of Richie’s car, nearly drowning out the low hum of whatever indie channel Richie has tuned his radio into.

  
  


To Eddie’s surprise, Richie is still looking back at him. His smile, wide and toothy, has disappeared but there’s still a slight turn-up to the corner of his lips.

  
  


There’s movement under Eddie’s hand. Instead of pulling his own hand away, Richie turns it over so they’re palm to palm. He squeezes, and Eddie squeezes back.

  
  


_ Me too _ , he says without speaking.

  
  


They’re still watching each other carefully and the rain is still blocking the rest of the world from view.

  
  


“C’mere,” Eddie says gently.

  
  


Richie hesitates for a moment, the static pause of a VHS tape, the frame jumping before Eddie finds the play button on the remote and then he’s moving forward. It’s a slow coming-together but it’s propelled by years of knowing each other even when they were states apart. It’s like muscle memory, the pull of iron filings to a magnet.

  
  


They meet in the middle, lips catching each other.

  
  


_ Welcome home _ , the kiss says.

  
  


_ You’re back, _ Eddie notes with a slide of his mouth.

  
  


_ I am _ , Richie answers with a quiet gasp that has Eddie surging forward. His free hand slides easily into Richie’s hair, the heel of it grazing the shell of Richie’s ear.

  
  


He deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing along the seam of Richie’s lips and with a hot burst of air, Richie pliantly opens up for him.

  
  


When he’d first kissed Richie, it was like moving into a new house. Exciting but unfamiliar. He didn’t know which floorboards creaked or which keyholes needed some extra encouragement to turn. But the more he kissed Richie and the more Richie let him love him, it was like he’d lived in the house for years. Like he knew exactly how to open a door without the hinges creaking in protests, or how to draw the exact pattern of the cracks in the kitchen tiles. Now? Now it was like moving back into the house, sweeping away the cobwebs and throwing the curtains open, letting the dust rise and the light stream in.

  
  


Yeah. Welcome home.

  
  


Richie makes a desperate noise. Eddie hears the way it catches in his throat and he runs a soothing hand over the back of his neck, fingers pressing in to massage the skin there. 

  
  


“What are you doing?” Richie asks him.

  
  


“Kissing you,” Eddie mumbles against his lips. He doesn’t think that’s the correct answer, but Richie accepts it anyway and tilts his head to the side, licking into Eddie’s mouth and running his tongue behind the back of his teeth.

  
  


“Mhm,” is all Richie says.

  
  


They’re still holding each other’s hand but then Richie lets go so he can splay his hand, wide and large and oh-so-familiar against Eddie’s hip.

  
  


He tugs gently and then Eddie is moving. He has to shuffle awkwardly to maneuver himself over the control panel of the car, but soon enough he’s throwing a leg over Richie’s and settling into his lap.

  
  


Then Richie’s mouth is back on his and Eddie moans into the kiss, the sound turning it frantic and desperate. This isn’t a good-morning kiss, or a see-you-later-kiss. It’s not a have-one-for-now-and-be-certain-there-will-be-more-after kiss. This is just a kiss that they both need right now and it’s furious.

  
  


The steering wheel digs in uncomfortably at the small of Eddie’s back but he ignores it in favour of letting his tongue drag a wet, messy stripe up Richie’s jaw.

  
  


“Fuck,” Richie groans shakily. His grip tightens on Eddie’s waist and Eddie can’t help but rock his hips forward. The effect is instantaneous and he can feel himself get hard, choking back a moan as his teeth nip lightly at Richie’s stubble. It scratches at his lips and he wants more, pressing kisses along the strong line of Richie’s cheekbones, while Richie gasps and arches up against him.

  
  


The seam of Eddie’s jeans is pressing into right where he absolutely doesn’t need it to be and it’s driving him crazy. He doesn’t know how far he’s allowed to go, that’s not for him to decide.

  
  


“Eddie,” Richie pants. He pushes his hips up and Eddie can feel the hard line of his cock against his ass, even through both pairs of clothes. That nearly sends him spiralling right then and there.

  
  


“Yeah,” he answers, but doesn’t give enough time to answer, too preoccupied with sucking Richie’s tongue into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders. How the fuck are they even wider than he remembers?

  
  


Richie pulls back. “ _ Eddie _ ,” he says again, and the sharpness is enough to make Eddie stop. He gets ready to awkwardly clamber off Richie’s lap, red-faced and half-hard.

  
  


But instead, Richie asks, “Can I touch you?”

  
  


His pupils are blown wide as he traps Eddie in his gaze, expectant and maybe a little bit nervous. Eddie feels like he’s going to explode like a seven year build up of torment is about to culminate in an embarrassing display of waterworks. No, really, if he manages to stop himself from crying it’ll be an impressive feat of his own self-restraint.

  
  


Eventually, he manages a jerky nod and then Richie is rushing back in to mash their mouths together. Their teeth click painfully and Richie corrects it with a quick, apologetic peck, one hand winding around the back of Eddie’s neck while the other reaches down between them to deftly work at Eddie’s fly.

  
  


As Eddie tries to shoves his jeans and boxers down, he pushes up onto his knees to aid himself which results in him smacking his head off the roof of Richie’s car.

  
  


“Fucking Mother  _ Mary _ ,” he swears.

  
  


“Fuck, are you okay?” Richie asks, the effect of his concern dampened by the fact that he’s clearly fighting to hold back a laugh.

  
  


“Shut up,” Eddie warns him. He’s immediately caught off guard by Richie reaching up with both hands to drag him down so he can plant a kiss into his hair, far away from the actual spot he’d hit but comforting nonetheless.

  
  


It’s a stark contrast to their previous, frantic pace. It serves to slow the whole moment down until they’re caught in a stagnant current of solid silence, the tension around them thickening until all they can do is stare at each other again. Eddie’s mind flashes back to all the other times Richie had prescribed to the idea that kisses were like an ointment for any injury. When Eddie had shaved his legs for a marathon and nicked at the jut of his knee with the razor, Richie had leaned down to noisily smack his mouth against Eddie’s shin. He’d pressed a long kiss to Eddie’s finger when he jammed it in the car door. Even the damp behind of Eddie’s hair, sodden with water and shampoo suds, had been treated to Richie’s favourite method of healing when Eddie had leaned down to pick up his sponge and cracked the back of his head off their little shower shelf. Richie hadn’t hesitated to pull the shower curtain back and climb right in there with him, fully clothed, until Eddie was laughing again and all too eager to fuck Richie into the tiled wall, their kisses tasting like the remnants of Kiehls.

  
  


Richie had always been there to take care of him and all Eddie had wanted to do was say that he was able to do the same in return. He’d never managed it in the end though, had he?

  
  


_ But I could _ , he found himself thinking as he stared at Richie.  _ I could take care of him again _ .

  
  


His chest feels like it’s burning as he opens his mouth. “Richie, I-”

  
  


Immediately, Richie cuts him off with another kiss, and it’s back to the bruising, aching energy from before. Eddie’s lips are tingling from the burn of Richie’s two day old beard but he knows he can’t complain, not when Richie is reaching down to pull Eddie’s cock out of his boxers and envelop it in his hand.

  
  


“Fuck,” he hisses, his head tipping back.

  
  


He grants easy access for Richie’s mouth to latch itself onto his neck and he hums contentedly when Richie’s tongue adds a soothing pressure to exactly the right spot.

  
  


“Yeah,” he murmurs when Richie begins moving his hand. It’s a little dry but then Richie spits in his hand and Eddie’s whole body feels like it’s full of molten lava.

  
  


Then Richie’s hand is an easy slide down him and Eddie is putty. He feels the pad of Richie’s thumb press gently against the tip of dick and he lets out a gentle cry.

  
  


“Yeah, that’s good,” he whispers, rocking his hips forward. A little hesitantly.

  
  


Richie lifts his head. “I already know you’ve got more to you than that, Scoop. Come on.”

  
  


And that’s when Eddie lets himself move, fucking himself into Richie’s sure and steady grip, his nerves alight with a current of electricity that’s threatening to shake him apart. He’s like a bulb that hasn’t been changed into seven years and now a new light is bursting through him. He’s almost there, embarrassingly close and he slides a hand along Richie’s jaw to guide his mouth back towards his.

  
  


His hips jerk forward, erratically and without any rhythm but Richie meets every thrust with a confident stroke of his hand, the other reaching around to palm at Eddie’s ass.

  
  


“I think I’m gonna-”

  
  


“Yeah, come on, Eds,” Richie encourages him. With another few deft strokes on Richie’s end, Eddie is coming with a sharp gasp, mouth falling open as his whole body tenses up. His hand flies out to the side, palm slamming against the condensation covered window of Richie’s car to steady himself as his hips stutter forward.

  
  


“Ah!” is all he finally manages as he gradually softens, looking down to see his come webbing itself across Richie’s fingers. The sight of it ignites something primal in him and he lets out a soft grunt.

  
  


Richie lets his head tip forward until his forehead is pressed against Eddie’s chest and Eddie’s automatically slides his fingers into Richie’s hair, gently massaging the roots, both of them breathing heavily.

  
  


“Okay,” Eddie manages when he has his breath back. “Your turn.”

  
  


“What?” Richie sounds surprised when he lifts his head.

  
  


Eddie blinks stupidly when he looks at him and notices there’s a small, pink, perfectly round circle on Richie’s forehead that hadn’t been there before. He swiftly realises it’s an indentation from one of Eddie’s shirt buttons, left there from where Richie had just been resting his head against Eddie’s shirt. He has no feasible idea why the revelation feels like someone has taken a meat cleaver to his heart and all he wants to do is lean down and leave a soft, lingering kiss there until the mark fades away.

  
  


He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to do that.

  
  


Besides, Richie is still squinting at him curiously.

  
  


“What, you don’t need to…?” Eddie asks, suddenly unsure.

  
  


“I just mean you don’t  _ need to _ ,” Richie shoots back, looking more than a little stricken.

  
  


“What if I want to?”

  
  


Richie seems to consider this. “Okay, well, who am I to stop you?”

  
  


That startles a sharp sort of cackle from Eddie which leaves both of them leaning against each other as they laugh.

  
  


“Okay, if I try and jerk you off like this I’m gonna give myself fucking carpal tunnel or something, so let me just,” Eddie mutters as he tried to move back over to the passenger seat, pausing halfway to stuff his dick back into his boxers, as if the whole awkward maneuevr has left him with any dignity to spare.

His ass hits the seat with a thud.

  
  


“Watch the suspension,” Richie teases, soothingly running a hand over his dashboard with his clean hand, which of course draws Eddie back to-

  
  


“I have wipes in the glove compartment,” Richie smirks, following Eddie’s gaze to where his hand is still covered in Eddie’s come. 

  
  


Blushing, Eddie drops open the compartment and tosses the wipes towards Richie, busying himself with shuffling onto his knees as Richie cleans himself off.

  
  


“Okay, you ready?” he asks then winces at how fucking stilted that sounds.

  
  


“Aye, aye, cap’n,” Richie grins, also taking onboard the fact that Eddie has suddenly reverted back to a slightly less horny but just as generous version of himself. He opens his mouth and Eddie can just  _ tell _ that there’s gonna be some reassurance about how he  _ doesn’t have to do this _ , just like he could always tell when Richie was gonna wheedle him into giving him the last cookie, or when he needed a hug but was feeling too vulnerable to ask for one.

  
  


“I want to do this,” Eddie says bluntly. 

  
  


Richie’s eyes widen, like he’s surprised by Eddie’s way of knowing what he was going to say. But instead he just lets himself be kissed by Eddie again, his hands coming up to cup his neck while Eddie palms him gently through his jeans.

  
  


There’s no build up to the way they awkwardly tug Richie out of his jeans. It’s just as stilted and difficult as Eddie had made it for himself, but this time there’s no injuries, just the quiet, reflexive hum that makes sure it’s heard at the back of Eddie’s throat when his eyes land on Richie’s dick.

  
  


He hears Richie inhale a little and immediately holds up a finger. “Don’t you fucking dare,” he warns.

  
  


“What?”

  
  


Eddie glowers at him, his eyes beady little semi-circles underneath his eyebrows. “You’re about to say ‘hello, again’ in Obi-Wan’s voice.”

  
  


Richie goggles at him, jaw dropped. “How do you  _ do _ that?”

  
  


“Because I fucking  _ know _ you,” Eddie laughs, but the light seems to dim in Richie’s eyes as soon as the words land. _ I did know you _ , Eddie thinks.  _ I’d like to think I still do _ .

  
  


_ Can I know you again? _ is what he really wants to ask.

  
  


But he doesn’t. Instead, he just rests his hand on Richie’s thigh, thick and hairy in a way that makes his mouth water, and gives it a squeeze. Then, he leans down and takes Richie into his mouth.

  
  


It’s not like he hasn’t sucked any dicks since he and Richie broke up. In fact, he’s let himself loosen up a lot since then, especially since he’s no longer in the closet. Derry was sort of a hard-no for him with a few exceptions, especially since there aren’t a lot of rainbow fish in the town’s figurative dating pool, but Mike has a pretty good grasp of the gay scene in Maine’s bigger cities, so Eddie’s been around in the past seven years.

  
  


But fuck him if he doesn’t like Richie’s dick the best.

  
  


It’s not an absurdly romantic thought, bordering on crude, actually. That’s why he supposes it’s allowed though and he moans appreciatively around Richie.

  
  


He can’t take him down fully, he knows that already, but his hand is already automatically wrapping around what won’t fit in his mouth and Richie lets a moan from somewhere above him.

  
  


Eddie’s tongue presses down against the vein on the underside of Richie’s cock. The salty taste of precome hits him and he hollows out his cheekbones, sucking lightly and rotating his wrist a little to find a pace that’s best for both of them.

  
  


“Eds, fuck, that’s - yeah,” Richie sighs, his hand settling in Eddie’s hair.

  
  


Then Eddie moves his head, drifting his mouth over the tip of Richie’s dick before taking him back down again, allowing the sounds Richie is making to spur him on. There’s an unfamiliar noise sounding from behind him and once his mind clears a little, he realises it’s the sound of Richie’s nails digging into his car’s upholstery as he shifts his hips.

  
  


Eddie lifts a hand to tap at Richie’s waist, their usual signal for ‘go ahead’, even though he forces himself to remember there’s nothing ‘usual’ about this. But Richie gets the message anyway and soon enough, he’s fucking into Eddie’s mouth. 

  
  


“Yes, ah,  _ there _ ,” Richie directs him. 

  
  


The hair on Richie’s legs tickles at his face as Eddie takes him down again, stifling a cough at the back of his throat when his eagerness to get the other man off makes his eyes water a little. His hand is large and reassuring and  _ warm  _ at the back of his neck and he feels so surrounded by  _ Richie  _ at that moment, he finds himself wanting to cry. Not for the first time that night.

  
  


“Eds, I’m not gonna last long,” Richie warns him and that’s when Eddie slows down, his head finding a gentle rocking rhythm that manages to be maddeningly lazy yet still succeeds in driving Richie crazy.

  
  


“Oh shit, you fucking tease, you fucking, shit,” is all Richie seems capable of doing, cursing Eddie out which is inexorably effective in prompting Eddie’s dick to make a valiant attempt at getting hard again. But this isn’t about him right now, it’s about making Richie feel good.

  
  


Eddie lets his own mouth salivate more, dragging his tongue over the head of Riche’s cock and looking up at him through his lashes.

  
  


Richie’s chin is tipped skyward as he gulps in heaving breaths, but he must feel Eddie’s gaze on him because his head falls forward and he stares at Eddie through half-lidded eyes. Time seems to freeze like a fly in amber, and Eddie slowly blinks at Richie before closing his eyes just as a desperate ‘ _ please _ ’ falls on his ears.

  
  


“Please, Eds. I need it. You’re perfect. I need it. I need-”

  
  


Eddie swallows him again, taking him as far as he can go, curling his tongue with a practised precision and that’s what sends Richie over the edge, spilling into Eddie’s mouth.

  
  


Eddie makes sure to stay still, his arm wrapping around Richie’s waist and holding him close so he can take it all. He used to be so delicate about swallowing Richie’s come, but he makes sure to take whatever Richie gives him. As if that’s some sort of certificate for growth.

  
  


Then he pulls away with a wet smack, running his thumb under his bottom lip to catch what he missed. He holds Richie’s gaze as he pushes his thumb into his mouth and licks it and Richie groans, hips twitching again in a last-ditch attempt at a hopeless chase for more friction before he collapses back against the seat and lazily tucks himself back into his boxers.

  
  


Eddie reaches for the wipes, scrunching one into a little ball when he’s done with it, and then glances back over at Richie who looks like he’s still fighting to get his breath back.

  
  


“Yeah, me too,” he huffs out a laugh. He reaches a hand out to rest it on Richie’s cheek. “Richie, baby, you okay?”

  
  


He doesn’t expect Richie to flinch at that, but he does. Eddie pushes himself back a little, hand dropping by his side as he raises an eyebrow at Richie.

  
  


“Rich?”

  
  


Richie is staring at him, his chest still rising and falling with uneven breaths, but his whole body seems to curl away from Eddie, like a pill bug rolling itself up into an impenetrable little ball.

  
  


“Rich?” this time Eddie’s tone is more pointed as he watches Richie swipe a hand across his forehead.

  
  


“Fuck,” he mutters and Eddie’s stomach bottoms out, a hole punching its way through it to make room for the dread cementing itself there.

  
  


“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly, perhaps stupidly.

  
  


Richie’s forehead creases. Eddie isn’t used to seeing him like this. The expression writes itself across his face like a foreign language.

  
  


“Do you want me to go?” Eddie asks.

  
  


It’s over now, whatever had existed between them in the past half hour. Eddie feels like he’d been granted a backstage pass to a sought-after revival of his favourite act. Now the ticket is being ripped up in front of his eyes. He’s being thrown off the stage, out of the arena and down the street.

  
  


Richie’s car isn’t that big. It’s not the flashy sports car he’d always threatened to buy back in New York just because he knew it would piss Eddie off, having to cram them both in there, but the Chevrolet Chevelle doesn’t exactly lend them any more space.

  
  


Yet Richie feels miles away from him.

  
  


The rain is still lashing down and Richie’s gaze seems fixated on the blurry, light-speckled view through the windshield. He refuses to look at Eddie but eventually he answers him.

  
  


“I think… yeah. That would be best.”

  
  


Eddie presses his lips together and Richie finally turns to him.

  
  


“Sorry,” he says, his voice flat. “I just… A lot just happened and I need to…”

  
  


“No, yeah, I get it,” Eddie says quickly even though he only sort of does.

  
  


He spares Richie another glance before he swings the door open but Richie is still looking forward, like he has blinders on.

  
  


Eddie hovers by the open door, the sound of the rain hitting the ground much more prominent now like the noisy rattle of a beaded curtain. He pauses like he wants to say something else but what good would that do? Instead, he shuts the door with a soft click then jogs back to his own truck, not bothering to lift his jacket to shield himself from the rain.

  
  


The door slams behind him, sounding loud and jarring as he sits there and flicks his hair back, already soaked through from walking a mere fifteen feet across the rain-slicked concrete. He lets out a shaky breath and his face is illuminated all of a sudden by Richie’s headlights as he swings his car around and then tears out of the parking lot.

  
  


Eddie’s hands rest at ten and two on his steering wheel as he tries to fight back against the ache in his chest. 

  
  


“Fuck,” he mutters to himself and then once again, louder. “Fuck!”

  
  


He thumps at his steering wheel with a balled up fist then flings his head back against the headrest, boring a whole into the roof of his truck as his whole body wilts.

  
  


“Fuck.”


End file.
